


Care Giving

by Picpicpic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: COVID-19, Care, Coronavirus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hug Hug Hug because it's what we all need right now, Isolation, M/M, NHS Heros, and breaking thereof, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:57:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Picpicpic/pseuds/Picpicpic
Summary: CW: Sherlock breaks isolation. For John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 118
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection, Quarantine





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to all medical and emergency personnel around the world, dealing with the hell that these times brings. We see you. You are heroes. 
> 
> I'm sorry for any inaccuracies and misconceptions. Not Brit-picked nor Beta'd. Please let me know if something is too off or offending, that is the last thing I want.  
I'm sorry Sherlock breaks isolation, I do not condone it unless it's for life-saving reasons.  
Hope you are all well and safe.

They were talking every day, of course, they were Skyping, but it wasn’t enough. John, idiot John, had gone to volunteer at the ICU and was now working 13-hour shifts that usually extended by an hour at least. Then he’d go rest at the idiotic hotel room he’d rented. “It’s to keep you safe, Sherlock, you and Mrs H.” he insisted every night. But it didn’t make it any better. John was still an idiot. Not for wanting to help, of course, Sherlock knew, but for going. John was his idiot and he should’ve stayed close, safe.

Their nightly talks were usually brief, John’s eyes drooping with exhaustion before he could tell Sherlock anything of importance. He’d shrug a shoulder whenever Sherlock asked for details, “it’s a hospital, you know, it’s not pretty,” was his answer. But Sherlock could read it in his face. The details of his day collecting in his features, even after the shower; The irritated mask-burns ploughing foreign borders across his familiar face; tiredness stealing both colour and mass from his skin, the overwhelming duty dulling his eyes, the loss for answers, for words, for reasonable comfort, tugging relentlessly at the corners of his mouth. It made Sherlock want to weep and scream and hold on and never let go. It made him want to tell John everything, all of it. But he never did.

“Goodnigh’, Sherlock,” John would mumble eventually, (it was a short eventually, always too short,) before he’d hang up and fall asleep. Twice it happened that he’d fallen asleep before hanging up, and Sherlock sat there, for hours, studying his sleeping features. _For science_ he’d excuse it to himself, tucking the lie behind the scar in his chest. Knowing that it wasn’t, not really. It was out of pure, hateful sentiment - missing John, worrying, caring - that he’d sit all night and watch John sleep. Eventually (and this was a long eventually) he’d hang up, not wanting John to know, or notice.

_‘John, charge your phone, - SH’ _the simple message would read when John found it in the morning, grateful for the reminder.

They texted sometimes during the day when John had a precious spare moment from the devastating craziness around him.

_‘Alright?’_ He’d send to Sherlock, hoping Sherlock would read everything weighing behind it.

_‘Experimenting with your Milk,’_ Sherlock would answer just to make him smile, or _‘organizing the book-shelves according to the total net worth of the author,’ _he’d write, hoping to distract John long enough to breathe and compose himself again.

_‘You utter git,’_ John would answer, usually with one despicable emoji or another, and Sherlock would exhale with relief, that John, his John, was still there.

Then came the shift during which John did not answer. Sherlock busied himself with experiments, cold cases from Lestrade, and recordings of microscopic imaging of the virus Molly sent him from the labs at Barts and tried to get John’s attention with messages along the day. But to no avail.

_‘The internet says it’s Health day, John. The irony of the matter is not lost on me, -SH’_

_‘Healthy Health day, John - SH’_

_‘I’ve made the mistake of looking at the news. It has further enforced my data that the world is filled with idiots. - SH’_

_‘Would you care deeply for your brown jumper? The thread count is perfect for the experiment I currently have on – SH’_

_‘John, - SH’_

Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something _more_ than the current situation. Something had _happened_. In his worry he’d followed John’s phone, making sure he was still within the hospital, contemplating calling a favour from Mycroft. He paced; from the fireplace over the coffee table onto the sofa left to look out the window, across to the door and back to the fireplace. It’d been the most he’d moved for days. But the nagging in his gut did not relent.

He’d called Molly to find she’d already left to go home. Mike Stanford’s number, which he’d track-down online was of no use at all.

There was no other choice. Adorned with a mask, gloves, scarf, coat and a wool cap, he’d taken to the back allies, making his way to the hospital. The blue dot of John’s phone continued to blip at the hospital’s address as he made his way, collar up against the wind, and the prying eye, and just so.

It was an hour passed John’s shift when Sherlock finally arrived at the hospital, and John’s phone still indicated his presence within the building. Sherlock hid in an alleyway across the street from the employee entrance, at a blind spot both from hospital security and Mycroft’s prying CCTV-eye, 13 ideas running through his mind – how to go in, undetected yet safe, and find John.

He’d discarded 11 ideas and was comparing the probabilities of the last two plans when his phone pings with an incoming message. _John._

_‘Sorry,’_

Sherlock raises his eyes just in time to see John’s figure staggering out of the hospital and disappearing around the corner of the entrance wall. Was it a smoker’s corner? Was someone there? Sherlock crosses the street without thinking twice, carefully following in John’s steps, to find him leaning against the wall in a secluded corner. His eyes covered by a gloved-hand and his shoulders shaking.

“John,” he hopes his voice sounds steadier than his heart feels at that moment.

John startles at the baritone, his head jerking up. “Sherlock,” he huffs, confused, embarrassed, relieved. “Fuck. What are you doing here?”

“I -”

“Is everything alright?” John, already in emergency mode, his eyes raking over Sherlock’s body for any visible injury. “Why’d you break isolation?”

_What would be a good answer, that would not… reveal… everything?_

But before he can string an answer together, John is already ranting. “You can’t be here, Sherlock. You can’t just break isolation. Social distancing is there for a reason, - ”

“What’s happened?”

John stutters at his words, his eyes wide, before his face locks up, jaw clutched, fighting against something, then crumbles. “Go home, Sherlock, please.”

“John,” Sherlock takes a tentative step towards him, “What’s happened?”

His arms wrap around John already, without really meaning to. They never do this, even before COVID-19 and social distancing, they never just touch, hug. But John’s body sags against him as if the string holding him up has snapped. He hides his face in Sherlock's chest, the tears running from his eyes. Sherlock's arms gather him in; hold him in place, hold him safe, cradle him into comfort and security.

“There’s so much… death,” John whispers finally. “So much anguish. They’re so alone. Everyone is so alone,” he tightens his hold on Sherlock’s lapels, burrowing further into his solid warmth. Sherlock rocks them slightly, without even realizing, his nose nuzzling through his mask into John's cap-covered-hair.

“I lost 4 patients today,” John admits. “And we lost 2 personnel – a nurse and a maintenance person. It’s just… it’s too much. It’s so unfair. It’s so random and quick and brutal,” The words pour out of him, unhindered. Everything he’s seen in the past few days, everything he’s dealt with, all the patients he’s treated, all the waiting family members, the danger, the loss, the insecurity, the unknown, the endlessness of it all. “We finish with one and there’s another. We clear a bed just to have it filled again…”

Eventually, the words dry up. Silence settles. John slowly gathers himself. He raises his head to look at Sherlock, takes a tiny step back, not willing to give up the connection. “You shouldn’t have come,” he repeats, but his voice is softer now, yielding. “It’s too dangerous. Too contagious.”

“Come home, John,” it’s the first thing Sherlock has said in a while. He's practically pleading.

“I can’t. It’s too big a risk. For you and Mrs Hudson.”

“I’ve sent her off to her sister’s in the countryside. Fewer people, more fresh air.” Sherlock reveals. It’s the one favour he’d relented to ask of Mycroft before he left the apartment. “I’ve already broken isolation, so you can come home.”

“Sherlock,”

“Please, John,” his hands cup John’s face, eyes locked into John’s.

He can feel John’s insistent logic battle with his sentimental wish to relent. To rest. To charge in the comfort of his own space, his home. To find comfort in the known. In the company of his flatmate, his best friend. In Sherlock.

“We need to go,” Sherlock prompts, trying to make his tone as final as John’s. “Either I join you at your hateful hotel room, or you come home.”

“Home,” John surrenders, relieved, squeezing Sherlock’s lapel one last time before pulling himself out of Sherlock’s arms and stepping towards the sidewalk. He waits for Sherlock to fall into step with him, keeping the decorum of safe distance, though it really doesn’t matter anymore.

They arrive home to find a warm food-delivery bag waiting at their doorstep, the logo of John’s favourite restaurant gleaming on the bag. Sherlock smirks at John’s raised eyebrow.

“Shower,” John orders as they step inside 221b. “Disinfecting bloody everything. Then food.” But there’s a ghost of a smile shimmering at the corners of John’s eyes. It eases the knots in Sherlock’s heartstrings. He nods, hums lowly in agreement, and leads the way into the bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s 3.00 AM. Sherlock sits on the floor, his back to the wall, his eyes on John’s sleeping features. Like those nights when John had forgotten to disconnect the call. Only now he’s here. Real. Present, but asleep. Sherlock’s breath shakes out of his lungs.

It makes a difference, apparently, being in the same room, because John cracks an eye open, catching Sherlock, taking him in as he blinks himself awake. Not startled, conceding.

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” he attempts a smile. It’s as shaky and as tired as Sherlock feels.

“Come here,” John tries, his hand moving along the covers at his side. Sherlock just stares, motionless, but John senses he’s aware. It’s something else that’s bothering him. “Sherlock,” he tries again, firmer, somehow, on the edge of command.

It works. Sherlock’s feels himself move before he even realizes. Up and forward to lie along the bed next to John. Close. So close. As close as possible. He lies on his side facing John, his eyes drawn to John’s again, the tips of their noses almost touching.

“You’re adamant to catch it, aren’t you?” John huffs, only half-joking, his voice soft.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s answer is without question. He doesn’t add the _if you have it, then yes_.

“What is it, hm?” John asks after another moment, “what's troubling you so?”

But Sherlock can’t seem to find the words. A silence screaming from within him. And John can see it in his eyes. This is not stubbornness, or a sulk, this is something new, something he’s never known in Sherlock. Something, he thinks, that Sherlock himself hadn’t known.

He edges a shaky hand to Sherlock’s cheek, stroking a gentle finger against the rasp of stubble. Sherlock’s eyes close at the contact, surprised, relieved, a gasp of breath sticks in his throat.

Encouraged, John’s hand cups his cheek, skin on skin. oh, the touch of skin, the weight of a palm. Sherlock tilts his head in response - into the touch, seeking, leaning in, daring to request. John caresses along his cheekbone, along his forehead, pressing lightly at his temple, gliding into his curls.

Sherlock breathes. Breathes. Dips his head so their foreheads touch, leaning against each other.

“John,”

“You’re ok,” John whispers, still caressing. Wiping the tear forming at the edge of Sherlock’s eye. He rises on one elbow, leans down to lay a fleating kiss on Sherlock's cheek. And one against his ear. “You’re ok.”

Then he settles back again, his eyes searching for Sherlock’s again. They are not any calmer, but the light in them has changed.

Sherlock's fingers come to trace against his wrist. “John,” Sherlock tries again, “Don’t go back, to the hospital.”

“Don’t,”

“Please,”

“Listen to me,” John starts, keeping the physical contact to soften the blow. “I understand you’re scared for me,” he says softly, almost afraid it’ll crash whatever moment they’ve built. “But you know how frustrated I get when I can’t help. I’m a doctor, an army doctor, trained for emergency. You of all people know what it does to me – to my brain and my body, - when I can’t pull my weight. Don’t take that away from me,” he pleas, “don’t ask me to be useless,”

“You are never useless,” Sherlock protests. He wants to cry. Instead, his hand comes to cup John’s face, careful of the chaffed lines marring his features. “Do they hurt?” his eyes follow the lines along his cheeks until they set back onto John’s eyes.

“No,” John answers with a small smile, allowing for the change of subject. “They itch, and they pull, but it’s not really painful,”

“I need to sleep,” John whispers after another moment of silent staring. It’s a request mangled with a plea. “I need to work in the morning.” He can see the dissatisfaction in Sherlock’s expression. “We’ll have time for breakfast together,” he suggests as a one-sided compromise. “And I’ll come back here in the evening,” it’s a promise.

He can see he’s lost Sherlock to the quiet distress again. Knowns he can’t offer anything else beyond proximity, the warmth of his body, the weight of his limbs. He lets his hand roam on Sherlock’s skull, pressing his forehead further into Sherlock’s. “Get some sleep, hm?” he whispers, his eyes already drooping closed. He’s not sure Sherlock listens, his even breaths lull John to sleep.


End file.
